Hearing what the guests were saying in the kitchen, the wife decided that she would not cook dinner…
The heavy cast-iron frying pan heated up slowly, as good cookware should. Marina brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen on her forehead with a familiar movement and glanced at her watch. A quarter to seven. Another half hour and the meat would be ready.
My God, it was so hot… She opened the window slightly, and the February wind blew into the kitchen, bringing with it the smell of melting snow and wet branches. It was getting dark outside. At such times, she always remembered how, as a child, she would sit in the kitchen at her grandmother Vera’s, swinging her legs on a high stool and watching her cook, fascinated. “The main thing in cooking is love,” said her grandmother. “Without love, the food will not be the same, no matter what.”
A burst of laughter came from the living room. Oleg’s friends, Vitka with his wife and Andrey, had been sitting there for an hour. They were drinking tea with her lemon pie and telling stories. Marina smiled, listening to the voices. It’s good when the house is full of guests…
“Do you remember how you got drunk last time?” Vitka’s loud voice drowned out the others. “Well, your wife is great, of course, but… Listen, is this art? It’s always the same. Olivier, cutlets… You get used to it, like furniture.”
Marina’s hand, holding the spatula, froze. Her heart skipped a beat.
“But it’s economical!” Andrey chuckled. “And men don’t even notice such dinners anyway. We just want to eat.”
She clenched her teeth, feeling a hot lump of resentment rising in her throat. Economical? She spent two hours yesterday at the market choosing the freshest meat! She had to go to the other end of town for spices — Nina Petrovna always had the best seasonings. And today she got up at six in the morning to marinate beef…
“You get used to it, like furniture.” The words hit her hard, like slaps. Sunday mornings flashed before her eyes, when she baked pancakes for Oleg. New Year’s tables that she thought out a month in advance. The signature roast for birthdays. Pies for unexpected guests.
And in response — what? “To eat”?
They laughed again in the living room. Marina made out her husband’s voice — he was telling her something, but the words were inaudible. And he was silent. He sat there and kept quiet while his buddies…
Something hissed on the stove — meat juice spilled over the edge. She jerked toward the stove, but froze halfway. But why? Why all this? For the sake of “to eat”?
The clock on the wall ticked mockingly loudly. A fresh cut on her hand was stinging – she was in a hurry with the salad, silly girl. Chopped vegetables, favorite spices, grandma’s sauce were waiting for their time on the table…
To hell with it. To hell with it all.
Marina resolutely reached out her hand to the stove switch. Something in her chest snapped – and she immediately felt so light, as if a weight had fallen off her shoulders. Her fingers trembled slightly, but the decision had already been made.
Wet snow was flying outside. The clock in the nursery was ticking. A door slammed somewhere in the entryway.
An ordinary evening, in which everything suddenly became different.
Having turned off the stove, Marina stood motionless for a few seconds, looking at the cooling frying pan. Her head was empty and ringing, like an empty glass. The clock behind her was ticking, counting down the seconds until… Until what? Until the moment when she stops being an obedient girl who pleases everyone?
There was a clang in the hallway – the lid of a jar of change fell. The cat, probably. This sound seemed to pull her out of her stupor. Marina straightened her shoulders, pulled her apron down, but then changed her mind and jerked it off with a sharp movement, throwing it on the back of a chair.
“Where do you always put it?” Vitka’s wife’s voice came from the living room. “Mine always loses his keys too!”
Laughter, the clink of glasses. An ordinary evening. Only something inside Marina had broken – or, on the contrary, had grown together? She herself could not understand.
The three steps to the living room seemed endless. Marina stopped in the doorway, feeling the cool air from the window cooling her hot neck. The smell of cigarette smoke hit his nose – Andrey was smoking into the lantern again, thinking that she wouldn’t notice.
– And then I tell him… – Oleg stopped mid-sentence, noticing her. – Marin, what’s wrong? Did something happen?
All heads turned to her. Vitka with a cigarette by the window. His wife Sveta in a new blue dress – she probably put it on especially for dinner. Andrey with an unfinished glass of wine. And Oleg – in the same shirt that she ironed this morning.
– There will be no dinner, – her own voice seemed strange. Calm, clear. As if it wasn’t her speaking.
– What do you mean? – Oleg chuckled nervously. – We seemed to have agreed…
– There will be no dinner, – she repeated more firmly. – Since it’s just “eating”, and all my efforts are not art, but just a habit… Then why? You’ll manage somehow yourselves.
A silence fell over the room. So thick that it seemed you could touch it with your hands.
– Marin, what’s wrong? – Vitka looked away, nervously putting out his cigarette. – We were just joking…
– Really? – She felt her lower lip trembling, but she controlled herself. – And in my opinion, you said what you thought. What you’ve been thinking all these years, but were embarrassed to say to her face. It’s easier to discuss behind your back, right?
Sveta shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Andrey buried his face in his glass.
– Darling, why are you so worked up? – Oleg stood up. – It’s just…
– Don’t you dare say “simple”! – She finally burst out. – For you, everything is “simple”! Just get up at six in the morning to make breakfast. Just run from work to the store. Just stand at the stove for hours. Just look for new recipes so you don’t get bored. Simple, simple, simple! And I’m tired of being a simple cook for your company!
She turned around, feeling a treacherous sting in her eyes. No, she can’t cry. Not now.
– There’s sausage over there in the fridge. And bread on the table. Enjoy your meal.
The clatter of her heels on the parquet floor sounded like gunshots. Marina walked to the bedroom, feeling their confused glances on her back. Everything inside her was shaking, but for some reason she knew – this was right. Finally, right.
Wet snow was still falling outside the window. The lantern illuminated the swaying bare branches of the maple. An ordinary February evening, when she finally stopped being silent.
The bedroom was dark and cool. Marina was sitting on the edge of the bed, mechanically stroking her grandmother’s old bedspread. Muffled voices could be heard from the living room – the guests were clearly getting ready to leave.
“Listen, we should probably go…” it was Sveta’s voice, unusually guilty.
“Yeah, it’s late,” Vitka supported. “Oleg, you… I’m sorry it turned out like this.”
The sound of chairs being pushed back. The rustle of clothes. The creaking of floorboards.
“It was awkward,” Andrey muttered.
Marina smiled bitterly. Now they were uncomfortable. And when they discussed her behind her back – was it convenient?
The front door slammed once, twice. Silence fell, only a quiet clinking could be heard from the kitchen – Oleg was probably clearing the table. She listened to herself – the anger was gone, only fatigue remained. And something else… Relief?